bottled spring

Her mom bought a can of air freshener called “spring.” The little blue bottle sat on the windowsill in the bathroom, framed by a small window. Outside the window, it was still winter. Not nice snowy winter. Hard winter. Numb winter. Dull winter. The grass was dead, the trees bare. Brown winter. The little girl tied her hair into pigtails with green rubber bands. She dug a small pink dress out of a box labeled “spring/summer” with thick black marker. She had grown since the leaves had fallen. The dress hardly fell past her scabbed knees. She didn't wear shoes. Grabbing the air freshener, she ran outside, her pale thin finger pumping thick clouds of mist from the can as she twirled frantically. Her feet burned against the frosted grass. Crunch. The mist surrounded her, and she sucked it in greedily. She coughed. It smelled wrong. Too sweet, like her mom's perfume. She wanted flowers. She wanted butterflies. She wanted sun. She was too old to cry, so she bit her lip 'til it bled a little. She stood on the brown earth tugging at her pink dress. It was too tight. Her feet were numb. She ran inside again, still clutching the little blue bottle. Sharp needles in her toes. She missed the daffodils.